З життя
Невеликий сільський куточок.
В українській невеликій, майже хуторі, розкинулось селище на пагорбі серед моху та журавлини. У селі всього чотири двори, дахи яких від дощів стали сірими, криті дранкою, притулилися під могутніми дубами, через що й назвали село Дубки.
У Дубках жило лише одинадцять душ. Люди тут жили завдяки господарству, полюванню та рибальству. Найзаможнішим в селі був Іван Трохимович. Він був скупий і роботящий чоловік. Йому вже під шістдесят, але сили ще в ньому є. Цієї осені назбирав п’ятнадцять пудів журавлини, звісно, не сам, а з Петром. Це його син. Петро — молодший, йому вісімнадцять. Двоє старших синів живуть у Києві і вже три роки не були вдома. Петро поки що в місто не тягнеться, але й до сільської праці не дуже пристосований. Одного ранку, прийшовши додому, Петро сказав батькові: — Засилайте, батьку, сватів в Озірці. — Куди саме? — похмуро запитав Іван. — До Дем’янових, до їхньої Павлинки. І знаючи сувору вдачу батька, додав: — Якщо не пошлете сватів, піду з нею в місто до братів. Не знайшлось Івану відради від молодшого. Він не дурень, легковажний. І господар з нього ніякий, але ж останній він. Піде в місто, а залишуся я на самоті з господарством. Марфа, стара його, зовсім слабка стала, хвороба її звела. Василь Дем’янов сам собі п’яниця та ледар, а дівчина у нього красуня. Бачив її Іван влітку на косовицях. Висока, статна, руса коса до пояса. Величезні сірі очі. І що ж вона знайшла в Петрі? Так!
Дівчина така будь-яку хату прикрасить, і Марфі давно помічниця потрібна. Довго чи коротко, але на Покрови справили весілля. А ще через місяць у Дубки приїхав представник і забрав Петра в армію. На проводах Павлинка плакала за Петром, як за покійником. З від’їздом Петра життя Павлини в Дубках стало нестерпним. Свекор перестав її пускати. Спочатку, ніби жартуючи, то ущипне, коли йде повз, то спробує обійняти, коли вона доїть корову. А як мила підлогу у світлиці, нахабно заліз їй під спідницю. Вона нічого не могла відповісти, їй було соромно перед свекрухою, яка лежала за ширмою. Якось, коли набирала сіна на сіннику, Іван підкрався до Павлини ззаду, повалив її в сіно і ліз цілувати, дихнувши на неї часниковим перегаром. Колючий, мохнатий бородатий закрив усе її обличчя, не даючи крикнути. Павлина стала задихатися, а свекор копирсався під її спідницею. Як їй вдалося вибратися з-під важкого Івана, вона не пам’ятає, але вибравшись, схопила вила, націлила їх у груди свекра і важко дихаючи прошипіла: «Заколю! Кобель старий! Прости мене, Господи!»
З цього дня свекор перестав чіплятися до Павли, але став обзивати її за кожну дрібницю: то не так вона робить, то це не так. Врешті-решт життя у дівчини стало нестерпним. І плакала Павлина і жалкувала. Ходила в Озірці до матері, скаржилася їй. А що мати? Пожаліла, поплакала і відправила назад. «Терпи», сказала. «Прийде Петро, все налагодиться». Перед поверненням у Дубки Павлина зайшла в сільский магазин, щоб купити сірники і приправи для кухні. Взяла лавровий лист, червоний перець, порошок гірчиці — свекор наказував. З малою охотою пішла в Дубки. Павлина йшла, скриплячи валянками по снігу, і роздумувала над своєю нелегкою долею. Вже третій місяць, як поїхав Петро.
Подобався їй цей веселий, бешкетний хлопець. Хоча в селі були й красивіші хлопці. Але грубі всі, безсоромні, а цей ніжний, грубого слова від нього не почути. Полюбити ж як слід не встигли. А тепер свекор норовить замість сина потішитися. «Не буде цього! Треба відвадити старого зіграча! Але як?» Поглиблена в свої думки, Павла навіть не помітила, як дійшла до Дубків. Свекор зустрів її з бурчанням, що довго ходила і не те купила. Попивши молока, Павла пішла в свою кімнату і замкнула двері на засув. Наступного дня топили баню. Баня стояла далеко від дому, біля маленького ставка. Павлина натягала води, розтопила піч. Потім, коли поралася по господарству, поклала в кишеню фартуха пакетик з червоним перцем. Вирішивши, що цього мало, додала гірчиці. Через деякий час, коли зібралася приби|ратися в бані, натерла полок перцем і гірчицею, щедро насипала адської суміші в тазик з вологим віником. Від запаху перцю і гірчиці в неї защипало в носі. Павла чмихнула і вискочила з лазні. Вискочила вона якраз вчасно, на зустріч уже йшов свекор з вузликом білизни під пахвою. — «Навіщо баню студиш, шмаркачко», — накинувся він на неї. Переступивши з тропи у снег, Павла мовчки пропустила свекра і побігла в хату. Зачинивши за собою двері, вона притулилася до стіни, серце її було готове вискочити з грудей. «Що буде?» Страшно Павлинці і радісно на душі, що вирішила покарати негідника. «Зараз тобі, старий, буде спекотно». «Ах ти, шмаркачка» — подумав Іван. Напевно, погано провітрила баню? Або головешка в каменці ще тліє». Поковирявши з пічкою кочергою і заливши водою тліючий вугіль, Іван виліз на полок і із задоволенням розтягнувся на ньому. Полок був гарячий і трохи обпалював шкіру. Іван пом’явся спиною і задом, звикаючи до спеки, але спека поступово перейшла в печіння.
Нічого не розуміючи, Іван сів на полок. Пробіг рукою по дошках полока. Нічого не знайшов. Інстинктивно почухав, цією ж рукою, своє «господарство» і тут же майже звалився на підлогу. Відчуття було таке, ніби передом вкусила оса, а ззаду накрили кропивою. Вревнувши від болю, як поранений ведмідь, Іван вскочив, як мати народила, з лазні, і плюхнувся в сніг. Печіння трохи вщухло, але сидіти на снігу стало холодно, і він побіг назад у баню. На підлозі, подавляючи ледве стримуваний сміх, качалася Павла. З кута свого вилізла Марфа і здивовано втупилася на Павлу, від якої зі дня від’їзду Петра, сміху не чула.
Марфа давно помічала, що її чоловік чіпляється до невістки, але захистити її сил не було, а тепер Павлина, взяла так і розказала свекрусі, як покарала старого. Марфа спершу насупила молочні брови — стало жаль чоловіка, але потім зі сміхом і сказала: «Так тому кабелю і потрібно». Увійшовши знову в баню, Іван став міркувати, що ж з ним сталося. Може на полок що потрапило? Зачерпнувши ковш гарячої води, він рясно змив полок і заліз на нього. Наче нічого не обпалювало. Піддавши в каменку, Іван взяв з шайки віник і став ганяти ним по спині і зав’язках, але тут у нього защипало в носі і в очах, тіло знову запалало вогнем, а в залі свербило так, ніби він сів у мурашник.
Зкотившись з полока на підлогу, він повзком доповз до дверей і майже вибивши її, викотився з лазні в знайомий сніг. Додому Іван прийшов мовчки, коли вже стемніло, вечері не захотів, одразу пішов спати, але заснути йому не вдалося. Все тіло палало. Він крутився на скрипучій ліжку, як в’юн на сковороді і едва не вив від болю, ледве стримуючи стони. Коли стало нестерпним, він розчинив вікно, зняв кальсони і виставив палаючу задню на мороз. Стало легше, але Івану здавалося, що від його сяїни можна прикурити цигарку. Слава богу ніч, якби хто побачив цю картину: Іван — відлюдний гордій, що сидить на підвіконні з голою задницею, як ворон на сучку, важко сказати, що б про нього подумали.
По-своєму оцінив що відбувається вірний пес Васка, чиї будка стояла під цим вікном. Пес встав на задні лапи і лизнув хазяїна за…. Від несподіваної ласки в Івана в грудях похолоділо і він, розм’якнувши, грюкнувся на підлогу. Від гуркоту встала Марфа, вийшла з своєї кімнати Павла зі свічкою в руці. Від малюнка, побаченого ними, хочеться і плакати, і сміятися. З голою ягодицею, без свідомості, на підлозі лежав Іван, а в відкрите вікно зазирала руда морда Васки. З цього дня Іван перестав чіплятися до Павли, так нічого і не сказавши їй. А незабаром Павла отримала від Петра листа і поїхала до нього, де він служив.
Хоча бабуся Дарина в своєму оповіданні і назвала невістку Павлиною, а я думаю, що це вона про себе. На неї схожий, хоча їй і за вісімдесят, а в очах досі пробігають іскри нечестиві…
A Parent’s Heart: A Story of Love, Worry, and Family Breakfasts—With Thanks for Your Support, Likes, Comments, Subscribers, and Special Gratitude from Me and My Five Furry Cats for Every Donation—Please Share Stories You Enjoy on Social Media to Make an Author’s Day!
A Parents Heart Thank you for your kindness, your likes and thoughtful words, for all the stories youve shared, your...
My Brother’s Pregnant Wife Demanded That We Give Up Our Flat for Their Growing Family—Then Blamed Me for Her Miscarriage
My brothers pregnant wife demanded we hand over our flat. Ive been married for ten years. My husband and I...
Staying Connected Every morning, Mrs. Hope Dawson’s day began the same way: putting the kettle on, spooning two heaps of tea into her beloved, chubby old pot—the one she’d treasured since her children were small and the world still felt wide open. As the water boiled, she flicked on the kitchen radio to half-listen to the news. The voices of the announcers were more familiar to her than many faces she knew. On the wall hung a clock with yellow hands. The hands still ticked reliably, but the shrill ring of the landline beneath them echoed through the flat less and less. It used to crackle in the evenings, when friends would call to discuss soaps or compare blood pressure. These days, friends were either under the weather, had moved away to help their children, or slipped away entirely. The hefty landline stood in the corner, its receiver fitting comfortably in her palm. Sometimes Mrs. Dawson would fondly stroke the handset in passing, as if checking that this old line of communication was still alive. Her children phoned each other by mobile now. At least, she was sure they did: when they visited, their phones were always in hand. Her son could fall silent mid-conversation, gaze at his screen, apologise—“Just a second”—then start tapping away. Her granddaughter—a slender girl with a long ponytail—barely let go of her own. Her whole world, it seemed, was in that little device: friends, games, lessons, music. Everything for everyone else was there. For Mrs. Dawson, it was just her old brick of a mobile. They’d bought it after her first hospital scare. “So we can always reach you,” her son had explained. The phone itself rested in a grey case on the hallway shelf. Sometimes she forgot to charge it. Sometimes it ended up buried in her bag among tissues and shop receipts. It rarely rang, and when it did, she often fumbled the buttons, then scolded herself for being slow. That day was her seventy-fifth birthday. The number felt strange—foreign. Inside, she felt scarcely older than sixty-five. Maybe sixty. But passports don’t lie. The morning rolled on in its usual way: tea, radio, a gentle joint exercise routine from the surgery. She fetched yesterday’s homemade salad from the fridge, set out a pie. Her children had promised to arrive at two. It still amazed her that birthdays were now orchestrated via some ‘group chat’ and not over the phone. Once, her son had explained, “Tanya and I sort everything in the family chat. I’ll show you sometime.” He never did. To Mrs. Dawson, ‘chat’ sounded like something from another life—a place where people lived inside little windows and only spoke in letters. At two o’clock they bustled in. First Grandson Archie, rucksack and headphones, then Granddaughter Daisy, quiet as a mouse, and finally her son and daughter-in-law, arms laden with bags. Instantly the flat was filled with the scent of bakery treats, her daughter-in-law’s perfume, and a fresh, quicksilver fragrance Mrs. Dawson couldn’t quite place. “Mum, happy birthday!” Her son hugged her tightly but briefly, as if already in a rush. Gifts landed on the table. Flowers went in a vase. Daisy asked about the Wi-Fi right away. Her son, wrinkling his forehead, dug in his pocket for a scrap of paper with the password, and began reciting a jumble of numbers and letters that made Mrs. Dawson’s head spin. “Granny, how come you’re not in the chat?” Archie called as he shucked off his trainers. “That’s where the action is!” “What chat? I’ve got this phone—more than enough for me,” she said, sliding a slice of pie his way. “Mum,” her daughter-in-law began, exchanging a quick look with her husband, “that’s actually why we… Well, we got you a present.” Her son presented a neat white box, smooth and shiny. Mrs. Dawson’s heart began to flutter. She knew what it was. “A smartphone,” her son announced, like a doctor breaking news. “Nothing fancy, but solid—good camera, proper internet, all the bits.” “Why would I need that?” she replied, forcing her voice to sound steady. “Mum, come on. We can video call now. We’ve got a family chat—photos, news, everything’s online. For booking appointments, checking bills—you said yourself the GP queue was dreadful.” “I’ll manage, somehow…” she began, but saw her son’s contained sigh. “Mum, it’ll put our minds at rest. You can message us straight away, and we can check in anytime. No more hunting for the green button on your old one.” He smiled, trying to soften the blow. Still, her stomach pinched. “Find the green button”—as if she was too muddled for anything. “All right,” she said, eyes on the box. “If you want, I’ll try.” Everyone opened the box together, like a child’s birthday years ago, only now the children were grown, and she sat at the centre, feeling more like a student at an exam than the guest of honour. Out came a slim black rectangle—cold, too smooth. No buttons. “It’s all touchscreen,” Archie explained. “Just tap, like this.” He drew his finger across the screen; icons flashed alive. Mrs. Dawson nearly jolted. This thing, she was sure, would now demand passwords, logins, or something else arcane. “Don’t worry.” Daisy’s voice went soft. “We’ll set it up. Just don’t press anything yourself, not until we show you.” For some reason, that stung the most: “Don’t press anything yourself.” Like she was a child in a china shop. After lunch, the family camped in the lounge. Her son sat beside her, phone on her knees. “Right—look here. This is the power button, you hold it, then swipe the screen to unlock—like this.” He moved so briskly her head spun—button, lock screen, swipe. It sounded like a foreign tongue. “Slow down,” she pleaded. “One thing at a time or I’ll forget.” “You’ll get used to it, promise. It’s easy.” She nodded, knowing it would take time. She needed to accept that nowadays, the world lived in these rectangles—and she would have to squeeze in there somehow. By evening, her contacts were loaded: children, grandkids, neighbour Val Peterson, and the GP. Her son installed a messenger, set up a family group, even changed it to big text so she wouldn’t squint. “See—this is the chat. I’ll type something now.” He tapped a message to himself. Her daughter-in-law’s “Hooray, Mum’s with us!” popped up, then a cluster of colourful emojis from Daisy. “How do I send something?” she whispered. “Press here—keyboard comes up—you type. Or, if you want, there’s voice. Hold the mic icon and just talk.” She tried. Her fingers trembled. ‘Thank you’ turned into ‘thabk you.’ Her son burst out laughing. So did his wife. Daisy giggled and added more smileys. “It’s fine,” her son said, noticing her tension. “Everyone makes mistakes at first.” She nodded, but shame prickled—incredible, to fail at something so simple. When they left, the flat returned to quiet. Only a half-finished pie, flowers, and an empty white box remained. The new phone lay face-down. Hesitantly, Mrs. Dawson picked it up, turned it over. The screen was black. She pressed the side button just as shown. The display glowed gently, showing a festive photo Daisy had set as her wallpaper—last year’s Christmas, all of them together. She saw herself in profile, in a blue dress and raised eyebrow, as if already unsure she belonged in that scene. She swiped the screen as instructed. Icons greeted her: phone, messages, camera, others she didn’t recognise. Her son had warned her: “Don’t press anything you don’t know”—but how could you tell, with so much unfamiliar? In the end, she quietly placed the phone back and went to wash up. It could settle in. It needed to get used to the flat. The next morning she woke early. Her gaze drifted at once to the smartphone. It still looked like a stranger patiently waiting. Yesterday’s fear ebbed slightly. It was, after all, only a thing. Things could be mastered. She’d learned to use a microwave—for all her terror it might explode. She made tea, sat, and drew the phone closer. She switched it on. Her palm felt clammy. The Christmas photo glowed back at her. She swiped. Icons again. She found the green phone—at least that was familiar—and pressed. A list of contacts appeared: her son, daughter-in-law, Daisy, Archie, Val Peterson. She chose her son. Pressed. The phone buzzed, then stripes danced across the screen. She lifted it to her ear as with any phone and waited. “Hello?” Her son’s voice was surprised. “Mum? Everything okay?” “All’s well,” she replied, a strange pride kindling. “Just wanted to check. It worked.” “There you go!” he laughed. “I told you. Well done! But it’s cheaper to call on the messenger now, remember.” “How…?” she faltered. “I’ll show you next time. I’m at work—can’t talk now.” She ended the call, pressing the red phone. Her heart pounded—but she’d done it. On her own. A couple of hours later, a notification pinged. The family chat lit up: “Daisy: Granny, how are you?” A tiny reply box blinked below. She studied it, then gingerly tapped the box. The keyboard appeared. Letters were small but visible. She tapped, one by one: “F” missed, landed “v”. Quickly erased. Tried again. Ten minutes to type: “All good. Having tea.” Missed a letter but left it. Pressed send. A moment later, Daisy replied: “Wow! Did you do that yourself?” Then a heart. She caught herself smiling. She’d written. Her words, sharing space with theirs. That evening, Val Peterson knocked, jam in hand. “Heard you got one of those… what do you call ‘em… clever phones!” Val cackled, slipping off her shoes. “Smartphone,” Mrs. Dawson corrected. It still sounded far too young for her—but she found herself enjoying the word. “And? It hasn’t bitten you yet?” “Just beeps at me—no buttons.” Mrs. Dawson laughed. “World’s upside down.” “My grandson wants me to get one. ‘Everyone’s got to have one, Gran!’ But I tell him, too late for me. Let them play with their internets.” ‘Too late’ hurt. She’d felt the same. But now something in her room seemed to say: Not yet. At least, give it a chance. A few days on, her son called: he’d booked her GP appointment—online. “How?” she asked. “Via the government website—everything’s there now. You could do it too. Your username and password are on a slip in the phone drawer.” She opened it—a neat slip of instructions, cryptic as a doctor’s prescription. Next day, she plucked up her courage. Switched on the phone, found the browser icon her son had shown her in passing. Tapped, typed in the address, cross-checking each letter from the slip. Twice she got it wrong, twice erased, painstaking. At last, the site loaded: blue-and-white stripes, unfamiliar options. “Enter username.” She read, out loud. “Password.” Typing the username was hard enough. The password—a tangle of letters and numbers—was an ordeal. The onscreen keyboard kept switching, then disappeared. At one point, she pressed the wrong button and the field cleared. She muttered, startled by her own annoyance. Finally, she gave up and phoned her son on the landline. “I can’t do it,” she said. “Your passwords are torture.” “Mum, don’t worry,” he assured. “I’ll come over and show you again.” “You’re always coming and showing me, then you leave and I’m alone with it.” A silence stretched. “I know,” he said at last. “But work’s mad. How about I send Archie—he’s better with tech anyway.” She agreed, but felt heavy-hearted. Without them, she was helpless—a burden needing constant explanations. That evening, Archie arrived, kicked off his trainers and joined her on the sofa. “Let’s see, Gran—what’s stumping you?” She showed him. “It’s these words, these buttons. I worry I’ll ruin everything.” “You can’t break anything,” he shrugged. “Worst case, you log out. Then we just log in again.” He explained calmly, fingers dancing over the screen. Where to press, how to switch languages, find GP details. “See—here’s your booking. If you can’t make it, you cancel here.” “What if I cancel by accident?” “Then you just book again. No biggie.” For him: no biggie. For her—a mountain. After he left, she sat with the phone for a long time. This little screen seemed to test her daily: another login, another ‘connection error’. The world once seemed so simple: call, arrange, show up. Now you had to master buttons, passwords, and pop-ups too. A week later, her check-up was nearly due. She woke groggy, her blood pressure swinging. She remembered her appointment was two days later. She decided to check. Switched on, opened the website as Archie had shown. Searched the booking page—her name was missing. Her heart plummeted. She scrolled up, down. Blank. She was sure she hadn’t touched anything. Or had she? Last night, she’d tried to view ‘cancel appointment’ to learn how it worked. Perhaps she’d pressed something by accident. Panic rose. No appointment meant a crowded walk-in queue—claustrophobic, coughing strangers. She felt giddy. She almost called her son. Then remembered: this was his busiest week. She imagined him glaring at his screen, apologising to colleagues: “Sorry, it’s my mum—again with the phone.” Shame prickled. She steadied herself. Sat, breathed. Thought of Archie, but he had classes—and she didn’t want to be rescued again. She eyed the phone. It was both the problem and, possibly, the answer. Carefully, she went back to the site, logged in. Her hands trembled but she tried to be exact. Yes—the appointment slot was empty. This time she clicked ‘Book Appointment’. Picked her GP, selected the nearest date—a day later than planned, but still soon. Pressed ‘Confirm’. The screen ‘thought’ a moment, then: “Successfully booked.” There, in black and white. She read it twice, three times. Relief seeped in. She’d done it—alone. To be sure, she went one step farther. She opened the messenger, found the chat with her GP—her son had set it up—and pressed the microphone: “Hello, this is Hope Dawson. My blood pressure’s not great. I’ve booked to see you in two days, in the morning. If you have time, please let me know.” She released the mic. The message sent; a little ‘tick’ appeared beside it. After a couple minutes, a reply: “GOT IT. SEE YOU THEN. IF YOU FEEL WORSE, CALL STRAIGHT AWAY.” The tension faded. Booking restored, GP notified—and all through that tiny screen. That night, she messaged the family chat: “Booked doctor online—myself.” She’d misspelt a word, but let it go. The meaning was clear. Daisy replied first: “Wow! You’re better than me.” Then her daughter-in-law: “Mum, proud of you.” Last, her son: “Told you! You’d manage.” She read their replies, feeling something quietly expand inside. She wouldn’t join in all their digital chatter or memes, but a fine thread now joined her to them—one she could tug for a reply. At her next appointment, all went smoothly. Afterwards, she decided to try something new. Daisy had mentioned sharing silly food and cat pictures with friends. At first, Mrs. Dawson had scoffed, but underneath, she’d envied their little glimpses into each other’s day—she had only her radio and the window. One bright morning, sunlight glinting on the glass jars of seedlings on the sill, she opened the phone camera. The kitchen appeared on screen, slightly surreal. She angled it at the seedlings. Pressed the button. A gentle click. The photo was a little fuzzy, but charming—green shoots pushing through earth, sunlight striped across the table. She thought the timid little plants looked much like herself with her phone—reaching for the light, feeling the weight of earth. She sent the photo to the family chat. Typed, “My tomatoes are coming along.” Sent it. Replies flooded in. Daisy with a snapshot of her desk, buried in books. Her daughter-in-law—a salad with “Learning from the best.” Her son—a tired but grinning selfie at work: “Mum’s got tomatoes, I’ve got spreadsheets. Who’s winning at life?” She laughed out loud. The kitchen no longer seemed empty; at that little table sat everyone, from all their far-off cities, together now. Of course, it wasn’t always smooth. Once, she accidentally sent a voice note to the group chat, muttering about the news on TV. The grandchildren howled with laughter; her son wrote, “Mum, get your own radio show.” She blushed, then joined in. Why not? At least her voice was heard. Sometimes she mixed up chats; once, she messaged everyone at once to ask how to delete a picture. Archie replied with step-by-step instructions, Daisy admitted, “I don’t know either”, and her daughter-in-law sent a meme: “Mum, you’re our tech star!” She was still often muddled by the buttons, wary of the phone’s constant ‘update your system’ pleas, as if it wanted to change everything she’d finally mastered. But gradually, her fear faded. She realised she could now look up bus times, check the weather, even found an old-fashioned pie recipe—like the ones her mum used to make. When she saw the ingredients list, tears pricked her eyes. She didn’t tell anyone—she simply baked the pie, sent a photo to the chat, added, “Remembered how Gran did it.” Hearts, exclamation marks, and requests for the recipe returned. She took a photo of her handwritten list and sent it off. Gradually, she found herself glancing less at the old landline. It still hung there, but no longer the sole thread to the outside world. She had another now: invisible, but strong. One evening, as dusk settled and windows twinkled across the street, she sat in her armchair, phone in hand, scrolling through the family chat: photos from her son’s work, Daisy’s selfies with friends, Archie’s quick jokes, bits of news from her daughter-in-law. Scattered among these, her tentative but growing contributions: the tomato picture, her pie recipe, a question about prescriptions. She realised she no longer felt like an observer through glass. True, she didn’t grasp half the slang her grandchildren used nor could she conjure up those playful smiley faces. But her messages were read. Her questions answered. Her photos ‘liked’, as Daisy called it. A soft ping broke the quiet—new message. Daisy: “Granny, I’ve got a maths test tomorrow. Can I call after and have a moan?” Mrs. Dawson smiled. Typed slowly, careful with each keystroke: “Call anytime. I’m always here to listen.” She pressed send. Then she set the phone on the table beside her tea. The flat was silent, but no longer empty. Somewhere, beyond walls and streets, calls and messages were waiting for her. She’d never be part of ‘the buzz’, as Archie called it, but she’d found a little corner of connection in this new world of screens. She finished her tea, turned off the kitchen light, and glanced at the phone—calm, unthreatening on the table. She knew, whenever she wished, she could reach out and her loved ones would be there. And for now, that was enough.
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